


my, my, such a sweet thing

by starrydrowse



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Praise Kink, Riding, Secret Relationship, Smut, gays be warned..... this is tender, mentioned super vaguely, this is ridiculously soft and cheesy but thats ok, truly exorbitant amounts of kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 20:34:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20279413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrydrowse/pseuds/starrydrowse
Summary: Roger’s head is swimming and he feels a little unsteady on his feet and it only seems to get worse the longer he looks at John.He watches John’s head fall forward as he laughs at whatever Freddie is saying, his long hair falling over his face, and when he looks back at Freddie, still grinning that wide, gap-toothed smile that makes Roger’s heart ache, he tucks it back behind his ear with those sinfully long fingers and Roger feels dizzy.*Or, Roger and John spend some well deserved time together.





	my, my, such a sweet thing

**Author's Note:**

> listen i KNOW this is super cheesy and self-indulgent but consider this: i couldn't help myself
> 
> shoutout to my sweet friend finn (@faguette/[@get-on-your-bikes-and-ride](https://get-on-your-bikes-and-ride.tumblr.com) on tumblr) for reading this through for me and helping me out when i got stuck ilysm!!
> 
> this is set during the winter of 1974. does it match up with their actual touring dates? no, because this isn't real ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> title is taken from the song crimson and clover by tommy james & the shondells (but joan jett's version is better whoops)

It’s nearing one a.m. when Roger finally catches sight of him across the crowded club.

He’s leaning against the wall, facing Freddie with a dopey sort of grin on his face and a drink in his hand that Roger can’t quite make out — something with a little umbrella in it that Roger is almost sure Freddie picked out. Freddie is talking with his hands and John is listening, nodding along. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are sparkling and Roger knows he’s drunk. 

They’re all drunk, have been for some time now; since long before the gig even started and all though the show and still now, hours later. Roger’s head is swimming and he feels a little unsteady on his feet and it only seems to get worse the longer he looks at John. He watches John’s head fall forward as he laughs at whatever Freddie is saying, his long hair falling over his face, and when he looks back at Freddie, still grinning that wide, gap-toothed smile that makes Roger’s heart ache, he tucks it back behind his ear with those sinfully long fingers and Roger feels dizzy.

It’s still new, this thing between them. It had started about six months ago with exorbitant amounts of vodka and had ended in Roger’s hotel room with fumbling hands and messy kisses and breathless giggles as they stumbled to the bed. At the time, their alcohol-addled brains hadn’t quite had the sense to consider the risks of sleeping with a bandmate — a best mate — but to Roger’s surprise, when he’d blinked awake the next morning in the gray, early-morning light of the room to find John sprawled out on the bed beside him, a mess of pale limbs and tangled hair, the panic never came. It felt easy, natural — the obvious next step that neither of them had seen coming, but now that it had Roger isn’t sure how he’d ever been able to live without it.

But it was new, and new things are so fragile, so they had kept it to themselves. Queen was also fragile— _finally_ garnering some attention, putting out their first album— and they both harboured no illusions about the kind of press they’d receive if they were even slightly public. It would risk _everything_ they’d all been working so hard and so long to achieve. So even as the weeks and then the months passed they’d stayed something secret, hidden behind locked doors.

It’s been months and Roger is still living off of kisses stolen in storage closets and dingy pub toilets and the occasional dark hallway, living off the barely-there brushes of John’s hand against his as they wait backstage and living off the fleeting glances that leave him warm all over when John meets his eyes across the room, gives him that sweet smile that’s only ever for him— the soft, off-kilter one, where his eyes sparkle and he catches his bottom lip between his teeth, like he’s trying to bite it back but he can’t help but let it shine through.

But these moments are over before they even begin, and from the second they end Roger can feel his chest growing tighter and tighter with every minute that passes without John’s hands on him, like the only time he can breathe is when their lips touch and he’s moving through the world holding his breath until he can get his next fix. He relishes in the rare occasions he finds himself rooming with John in the seedy motels across Europe— savours the quiet moments behind a locked door without the constant fear of being discovered— but more often than not he’s resigned himself to lying awake long into the night, blinking up at the water-stained ceiling and trying to tune out the sound of Brian’s soft snoring from the other bed, wondering if John has started having trouble falling asleep without him too.

They’ve been touring for what feels like years. The cities have started to blur together, each dingy hotel room bleeding into the next until they’ve finally, blessedly, found themselves back in London. It’s only for a night, they’re off to America in the morning, but still the thought of being back at his own flat, among his own things and in his own bed, even if just for a night, fills Roger with a sense of relief that he can feel in his bones. He takes a long sip of his drink and leans back against the bar and finds he still can’t tear his eyes away from John— he’s laughing again, crinkly-eyed and gap-toothed, shoulders shaking with it, and Roger’s chest is aching.

It’s then that John looks over at him. He’s still smiling at whatever Freddie said, and when he catches sight of Roger his smile widens and Roger is so dizzy he’s worried he might fall over. John is ridiculously soft and pretty, with his long hair and his long legs and his long fingers, bathed in purple light. The thumping bass of the music and the chatter all around him sounds distant in Roger’s ears as he looks back at him, fingers itching, needing to _touch._ John doesn’t look away— looks like maybe he couldn’t even if he wanted to— his gaze lingering on Roger, and Roger swallows when John catches his bottom lip between his teeth.

He watches as suddenly Freddie throws a hand onto John’s shoulder and John jumps, finally tears his eyes away from Roger to look at him. Freddie is saying something, quite emphatically, both hands on John’s shoulders as John leans closer to hear. Then John is nodding and Freddie is smacking a kiss onto his forehead before he lets him go, turns away and starts to move through the crowd toward the far wall, where Roger can see Brian squeezed into a booth, nursing a beer.

He glances back to John and sees him looking again, leaning against the wall, eyes bright, the smirk on his face almost challenging. When he sees Roger looking back he raises his eyebrows, lifts his drink to his lips and takes a slow sip. Roger’s cheeks are warm and he’s not sure if it’s from the alcohol or from the intensity of the look John is giving him, but either way he downs the last of his drink and sets the empty glass down on the bar, pushes away and starts to make his way through the crowd of people on the dance floor. John watches him, smiling soft and cheeky as Roger walks up to him.

“Hey,” Roger says.

John’s smile widens. “Hey.”

“Now,” Roger grins, “what’s a nice bloke like you doing in a place like this?” It’s ridiculously corny and Roger is honestly a little surprised he actually said it out loud, but John giggles, tucks his hair back behind his ear.

“Just passing through, really,” he sighs. “You know; places to be, people to see and all that.”

“I suppose you have plans for later then?”

“Going home with my boyfriend, I do believe,” John answers easily, turns to glance out at the sea of people on the dance floor. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.”

Roger raises an eyebrow. “He anyone special?”

“Very. I’m pathetically hung up.” John leans his head against the wall.

Roger’s stomach flips at that, and he forces down the giddiness bubbling up, ignores the warmth in the tips of his ears.

“I don’t suppose I could convince you to come home with me instead?”

“Dunno,” John hums. “I’m very loyal. I suppose it would depend.”

“On?”

John grins at him. “On what you’d do to me when we get there.”

Roger quirks an eyebrow. “That so?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, darling,” Roger murmurs. “I suppose you’d have to come back to mine to find out.” John’s pupils are blown, gaze locked with Rogers. “But I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

John wets his lips, eyes flickering down to Roger’s mouth, and it’s a few seconds before he can tear them away to meet Roger’s eyes. Roger is positively itching to kiss him, and he’s not quite sure how much longer he trusts himself to stand there, so close he can smell the tequila on his breath, before he gives in and closes the gap between them, right there in front of God and everybody. John looks like he’s about five seconds away from doing exactly that, and Roger throws the act out the window.

“Come home with me?” he asks quietly, and John’s eyes sparkle.

“Only if you insist.”

—

John is laughing when they finally get to Roger’s flat. He’s leaning heavily into Roger’s side, giggling into his coat sleeve, and for the life of him Roger can’t remember what’s so funny. He finds himself laughing along anyway, loudly shushing John between giggles in a vain attempt to not wake the neighbors, digging for his keys deep in his coat pocket.

John is still laughing when Roger jiggles the key in the lock and finally gets the door open, stumbling in before him and shrugging off his jacket. He drops it somewhere in the vicinity of the coat rack as Roger turns the deadbolt, grinning so wide his cheeks are aching.

The second he turns around, John is throwing himself at him, cupping the back of his neck with both hands to pull him in and kiss him hard. The forces of it knocks Roger back, into the wall, and he yelps, both in surprise as well as from the shock of John’s freezing fingers against his skin. He can feel John smiling against his lips and Roger laughs into it, kisses him back, slips a hand up to hold his jaw. John’s face is cold, cheeks rosy and snowflakes still melting in his hair and his eyebrows from the walk back. Roger is sure he’s not much better off himself; he can feel the chill settled deep in his bones, but with John pressed against him, kissing him so earnestly, he almost feels like he’s on fire.

John is sweet and pliant against him and Roger’s head is spinning when he flips them, presses John against the wall and slots a knee between his legs. Every bit of him is hypersensitive to John’s touch, and when John throws his arms around him, twists his fingers in his hair so gently, Roger shivers. John sighs against his lips, tugging at his jacket until Roger gets the hint, helps him push it off and lets him toss it to the floor.

They break apart only to catch their breath, and only for a few seconds; just long enough for John to breathe “missed this,” before he’s pulling Roger back in. He smells like tequila and strawberry shampoo and something sweet that Roger can’t quite place but he feels like he’s swimming in it. He steps closer, presses his leg between John’s more insistently and feels his hardness against his thigh. John gasps into his mouth, and Roger isn’t quite quick enough to bite back his moan, his own trousers quickly becoming uncomfortably tight.

John’s hand slips down to the small of his back, pulls him closer. Roger licks into the heat of his mouth, fists the hair at the base of his skull and tugs gently, pulling a quiet whine from the back of his throat. And then John is mumbling something against his lips, muffled, and Roger can’t quite make it out. A moment later John reluctantly pulls away, turns his head to the side just a fraction when Roger chases his lips. He looks like pure sin, with his dark eyes and mussed hair and kiss bitten lips, breathing hard. “Bedroom?” he repeats, much more clearly this time, and Roger’s stomach flips.

This isn’t their first time together— not by a long shot— but Roger’s heart still never fails to skip a few beats every time John looks at him with doe eyes and swollen lips and asks so nicely to be taken to bed. He wonders if that will ever stop. 

He hopes it doesn’t.

“Yeah,” he nods quickly. “Yes. Come on.”

He leads John quickly down the hall and into the bedroom, barely managing to shut the door behind them before John is on him again, kissing him so hard it’s probably bruising. Deft fingers work at his belt and tug at his jeans as John backs him towards the bed, and Roger pulls them down and kicks them off before the backs of his legs hit the bed and he falls to sit on the edge. John makes quick work of his own trousers, stepping out of them as Roger bends to take off his socks, before shuffling back to settle in the middle of the bed, propping up the pillows so he can sit back against them near the headboard. When John falls into Roger’s lap, a knee on either side of his hips, he’s only in his briefs. Roger’s hands instinctively go to gently squeeze the curve of his ass, making his hips rock forward and pulling him closer as he sighs. 

“Get this off,” John mutters, fingers going to the buttons of Roger’s shirt as he undoes it quickly and with more coordination than Roger thinks is fair in the moment. He chuckles as John pushes it down over his shoulders, leaning forward to let him slip it the rest of the way off and toss it to the floor. John’s hands land on his bare shoulders then, running down over his chest and his stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Eager are we?” Roger teases, and at the same time he settles a hand over John’s crotch, squeezing his cock through his pants, making his hips jerk.

“I missed you,” John replies, arms sliding around Roger’s neck. “It’s been too long. Think about you all the time.”

Roger blushes a little in spite of himself, and he slips a hand into John’s pants and curls it around his cock to distract him from the sudden pinkness of his cheeks. John’s breath hitches and he rocks into Roger’s hand, growing harder as Roger strokes him firmly. “You do?” He asks.

“All the time,” John answers. Roger lets go of his cock only for long enough to spit into his hand before wrapping it around him again, pulling, movements slow and sure, until John is straining in his hand. John shudders. “Can’t stop thinking about your hands and your cock and your bloody mouth — _christ_ I love your mouth.”

“Yeah?” Roger asks, nosing along his jaw. Without warning he flips them, pressing John into the mattress, knees bracketing his thighs, and he mouths at John’s neck, over his collarbone and down his chest until he reaches the waistband of his briefs, kissing his hip bone right above the fabric. “What else?” Roger says, looking up at him with innocent eyes as John threads a hand loosely in his hair. 

“Think about kissing you all the time,” John breathes without hesitating. His fingers tighten in Roger’s hair as Roger mouths along the length of his cock through his briefs, his hips bucking. Roger holds him down easily with a hand on his hip. “God, I hate having to hide,” he sighs. “Wanna kiss you in front of everyone, wanna show them all that I’m yours, that you’re mine— _ah, Rog_—” He breaks off as Roger slips his pants down just enough to ghost his lips over the head of his cock.

Roger grins up at him, quickly tugging John’s briefs down and helping him kick them off, and John lets out a soft sound as Roger curls his hand around his cock again, thumbing over the head. He’s warm and heavy in his hand, red and leaking, and Roger strokes him slowly before he’s leaning closer, keeping his eyes locked with John’s as he sucks the head of his cock into his mouth.

John pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, and he can’t tear his eyes away as Roger presses his tongue flat along the underside and slowly takes more of him into his mouth. It pulls a quiet whine from somewhere in the back of John’s throat and his hands tighten suddenly in Roger’s hair as Roger hollows his cheeks, sucks, moans around him. He pulls back, sinks down again, swollen lips stretched wide around John’s cock until his nose is nearly brushing the coarse hair beneath his navel. John bites back a moan, focuses on staying as quiet as he can and not bucking his hips, and when Roger swallows around him he slaps a hand over his own mouth to stifle his groan, digging his heels into the mattress.

Roger pulls off, gently, presses a kiss to the head of his cock before he’s reaching up, taking John’s hand away from his mouth and slowly settling it back into his own hair. John anchors on immediately, twisting his fingers to hold on loosely, even as he blinks down at Roger with his brow furrowed. Roger noses along his cock, presses kisses up the shaft.

“Wanna hear you,” he murmurs, sucking a small bruise on John’s hip bone. “Please. Just for tonight.”

John chews on his lip, and after a moment, casts his eyes to the side.

The truth of it is that they’ve never known anything other than being as quiet as they possibly can. Through the scarce nights they’ve been able to spend together, they’ve never known anything besides biting back their moans, shoving pillows between the headboard and the wall and pressing hands to mouths to muffle their sounds, because Brian and Freddie were always next door, barely more than a few feet away, and hotel walls are paper thin. Even on the rare occasions they’d found themselves alone together _without_ Freddie and Brian sleeping just one room away— when they’d managed to find some dusty, secluded storage closet, or a dingy bathroom in the back of a crowded club— there was always the added possibility of being caught raising the stakes; the chance of somebody hearing something strange and walking in to find them there, together, ruining everything they’d tried so carefully to keep hidden. It’s something they’ve grown accustomed to; a sacrifice they have to make to protect themselves and to protect Queen. 

But here, in Roger’s flat, with the flat next door vacant and the front door securely locked, Roger suddenly aches to hear him. He wants to hear John moan and gasp and whine, all for him, wants to hear every pretty sound he makes, even if it’s just for one night. He wants to commit each one to memory, to hold onto and replay over and over in his head on the lonely nights to come in America.

He mouths along John’s cock, and John lets out an unsteady breath, his eyes fluttering closed. “Please,” Roger says again. “Just wanna hear you sound so pretty for me.”

“Rog…” John breathes, and the quiet keen that’s pulled from him when Roger takes the head of his cock into his mouth again makes Roger’s dick twitch. 

He reaches down to give himself a firm squeeze, his other hand resting on John’s hip, thumbing over his hip bone as he sinks back down on John’s cock, swallows around him. John’s fingers tighten in his hair and this time he doesn’t try to hold back the soft moan that spills from his lips, arching his back and pressing his head into the pillows.

He’s actually unbelievable, Roger thinks; his chest and his cheeks flushed delicately and his lips parted, all long eyelashes and long hair, sighing as Roger slowly bobs his head. The noises he’s making are absolutely divine; soft gasps and moans and shuddery breaths as Roger pulls back to swirl his tongue over the head before sinking back down, tongue pressed to the sensitive vein along the underside of his cock.

John’s breath catches in his throat, and then he’s tugging harder on Roger’s hair and breathing “Rog, love, I’m— _ah_— I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that.”

Roger looks up at him from beneath his lashes, and John’s eyes are dark as he looks back at him. He gasps softly as Roger swirls his tongue over the head once more before he pulls back, slowly letting his cock slip from his mouth. As soon as he does, John is sliding the hand in Roger’s hair down to cup his neck, nudging him up and letting him settle over him again before pulling him down for a kiss.

It’s a slow, easy sort of kiss; long and indulgent but with no less heat behind it. John’s hand is warm now on his neck, the other solid against his side, holding him close as he opens his mouth so nicely for Roger and lets him in to taste. When they break apart, Roger doesn’t go far, burying his face in John’s neck and mouthing along the column of his throat, careful not to leave any marks. John sighs, running his fingers through Roger’s hair.

“Are you going to fuck me now?” he asks after a moment, when the sweet pressure building between his hips becomes a little too much to ignore.

Roger hums against his throat, pulling back to look at him, pausing like he’s considering it. His eyes are sparkling. “What’s the magic word?”

John huffs. “The magic word is ‘if I don’t get you inside me within the next ten minutes I might actually die,’” he mutters, but when Roger only raises an eyebrow at him, challenging, he feels his spine tingle and he has to swallow heavily before he’s confident that his voice will work. “Please,” he says quietly, his cheeks going warm. John barely has time to think that Roger’s wide smile more than makes up for the slight twinge of humiliation before Roger is kissing him again, chastely.

“Such a good boy, John,” Roger murmurs against his lips, and John makes a sound that’s equal parts needy and embarrassing, a little whimper of a thing, flushing deeper at the praise.

Roger reaches into the bedside locker then, searching for the lube, cursing a moment later when he realizes he’d left it in his suitcase, which is still lying unopened where he’d dropped it by the front door around three the previous morning. Reluctantly, he goes to retrieve it, giving his cock a frustrated squeeze when it isn’t in the front pocket where he thought it was and he has to go searching.

Finally, lube in hand, he returns to the bedroom, but he’s stopped in his tracks when he gets to the doorway, suddenly feeling like all the wind has been knocked out of him.

John is fucking ethereal.

He’s stretched out on Roger’s bed, loose and relaxed and bathed in the pale moonlight filtering in through the open window, long hair spread around him on the pillow not unlike a halo, Roger thinks. He’s all long limbs and soft pale skin sprawled out on the sheets, lazily stroking his cock, and he smiles an easy sort of smile when he sees Roger standing there. Roger is positive his heart skips at least a few beats.

He’s overwhelmed, for a moment, that he gets to see John like this; that he gets to touch him and kiss him and hold him. When he settles back on the bed between John’s open legs he kisses him just because he can, just because he can’t go a second longer without it, and then he kisses him again. 

He kisses him slowly, like they have all the time in the world; like they’re not hiding anymore, like they don’t have to be up in a few hours to meet the others at the airport, like they don’t have to go back to being just ‘John and Roger: Best Mates’ the moment they step out of the flat. John smiles up at him when he pulls away, all pink cheeks and bright eyes.

“You’re so pretty John,” Roger breathes before he can even think of stopping himself. “Fucking unbelievable Deaks. My beautiful boy. God, just look at you.”

John whines and leans up to kiss him again, arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer.

Roger fingers him open gently and so thoroughly, fingers slick with lube as he gives him one and then quickly a second when John breathes “more, please.” He takes his time, stretching John slowly and carefully, seeking out his prostate and making him gasp as he works him up to three fingers, until he’s loose and relaxed, a pretty red flush creeping down his chest.

“Taking my fingers so well John,” Roger murmurs, curling all three inside him and making John cry out softly. “So good for me sweetheart. Can’t wait to be inside you baby, you always feel so good.”

“Hurry up and do it then,” John shoots back, breathy, back arching as Roger twists his fingers and pulls a whimper from the back of his throat.

“Only because you asked so nicely.” Roger mutters sarcastically, and John huffs out a laugh as Roger pulls his fingers out, grabs the lube again and slicks his cock. He wipes his hand carelessly on the sheets before bracing a hand on the mattress beside John’s head, getting ready to push in.

“Wait, Rog, hang on,” John says suddenly, pressing a hand to Roger’s chest. Roger looks at him a little wide eyed, but John barely gives him a second to wonder if he did something wrong before he’s looking up at him from beneath his lashes and asking softly, “Can I ride you?” 

Roger has the presence of mind to think that it honestly shouldn’t be legal to look that pretty before he’s nodding, grinning and leaning down to give John a quick kiss. “Yeah. Yes, of course, Deaks. Never have to ask.” John laughs, a little breathlessly, as Roger switches places with him, sitting up against the pillows as John settles in his lap.

John braces a hand on his shoulder, the other reaching back to grasp Roger’s cock, giving him a few firm strokes. He pauses to grab the lube again, adding a bit more, and Roger shudders at John’s slippery fist around him. A moment later John is lining him up, and then he’s sinking down onto his cock slowly — so, so slowly.

John is like a vice around him, burning hot and impossibly tight, and Roger almost feels like he’s on fire when John finally lowers himself down all the way, letting out a shuddery breath as he bottoms out. They’ve tried it both ways — enjoyed it both ways — and Roger is intimately familiar with what John is feeling; the stretch and the almost overwhelming fullness before the ache gives way to something more pleasurable, and he stays as still as he can as John shifts his hips, adjusting to the feeling, a crease between his brows. Roger waits, rubs a hand slowly over his back, breathing in the sweet scent of his strawberry shampoo and pressing his lips to the soft skin of his shoulder.

After a moment, John’s eyes open and he gives Roger a soft smile, wrapping his arms around his neck and letting Roger catch his lips with his own as he raises himself on his knees, sinks back down. It punches a low moan from Roger, and John hums against his lips, rocks up again.

The rhythm they set is slow and unhurried. They rock together, easily, Roger’s hand wide on the small of John’s back, holding him close as John rolls his hips and fucks himself shallowly on Roger’s lap. It’s a slow, lazy sort of pace, all sweet honeyed pleasure and long indulgent kisses and dull pleasure burning at the base of Roger’s spine and he thinks that he never wants this to end. John kisses him long and sweet— so sweet— like he needs it to breathe, lips soft as anything against Roger’s, sighing into his mouth, tightening his arms around Roger’s neck slightly when he finds a good angle. 

“Yes,” he breathes against Roger’s lips. Roger settles a hand on his hip, pulls him closer and rocks against him and makes him whimper.

Roger has to pull back from their indulgent kisses for a moment just to _look_ at him, to drink in the sight of him; all long lashes and half lidded eyes, looking back at Roger with blown pupils and kiss-bitten lips. He’s flushed elegantly down his cheeks and his neck and his chest, warm under Roger’s hands, brown hair long and impossibly soft and flowing in gentle waves down his back and over his shoulders, sticking to his forehead and his neck where he’s sticky with a thin sheen of sweat. Roger’s head is spinning and for a moment he feels like he can’t quite take in enough air, and he doesn’t realize he’s started speaking until John is moaning, soft and high and breathless.

“Christ, you’re beautiful,” is what he’d said, and once his brain has caught up with his mouth he can’t help but repeat it, couldn’t hold it back even if he tried. John lets out a quiet whine when he says it again, drops down just a touch harder and punches a low moan from Roger’s chest.

“You like that sweetheart?” he murmurs. “Me telling you how pretty you look for me?”

“Mhm.” John’s cheeks flush a little darker but he doesn’t shy away when Roger meets his eyes, brushes his fringe back from his sticky forehead.

“You really are beautiful Deaks,” Roger breathes. “Prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on.”

John whines, catches Roger’s lips with his and kisses him sweetly, callused fingers holding his jaw. 

They’re barely out of breath, the whole thing is so relaxed, drawn out. John moves against him slowly, easily, and Roger rocks up into him, pulling soft keens from the back of John’s throat.

“God, John— feels so good love,” Roger breathes. “Sound so pretty for me Deaky, christ—”

John sighs and rests his forehead against Roger’s, eyes closed, rolling his hips easily and taking Roger’s gentle thrusts with soft sounds coaxed from the back of his throat.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers.

Roger hums, presses his lips to John’s cheek and his nose and the corner of his mouth and anywhere else he can reach. The pressure begins to build curiously in the base of his spine, makes him feel warm and tingly all over.

“Close?” he asks.

John nods, gasps quietly as Roger rocks up just a touch harder.

Roger curls a hand around Johns cock, strokes him lazily and then kisses him again, long and gentle and so sweet. The pressure builds until it’s something bright and warm and fiery and Roger is so close he can taste it. “God, John,” he breathes, rolls his hips and swipes his thumb over the head of John’s cock. John lets out a shuddery breath, mouth falling open. “Fucking amazing darling, shit— so good for me baby. Christ, I love you so much Deaky.”

Then John is suddenly going still in his lap, body strung taught as his nails bite into the back of Roger’s neck. He’s silent for a moment, and then he’s letting out a breathy moan, spilling over both of their chests, and that’s all it takes before Roger is burying his face in John’s shoulder, gasping, coming so deep inside him.

John is warm and boneless in his lap, head resting on Roger’s shoulder as he breathes, and as Roger slowly comes down from it, as the haze in his head begins to clear and his brain finally manages to catch up and process what he said, he suddenly feels his spine going cold as it hits him—

_Christ, I love you so much Deaky._

His heart is pounding in his chest and he feels ill. 

They haven’t said it yet — those three _fucking_ words that he’d been trying so hard to hold back; at least for now, at least until they’re something more solid, more stable and secure, at least until he’s sure that he isn’t going to panic and bolt. This thing between them is already so messy and so hard and so fragile and he knew that the second they said those words everything would become real; there’s no taking them back. So he’d tried day in and day out to keep them in, tried to push them down and ignore them altogether, even when everything in him knew that they were true. 

He focuses on breathing evenly, fighting to keep his hands from shaking as he runs his fingers through John’s hair, down his back. It’s a few moments later when John whimpers quietly from the sensitivity and Roger presses a chaste kiss to his sweaty neck, hands going to his waist to help him off. John falls onto the bed beside him, wrapping a hand around Roger’s wrist and tugging until Roger shifts down to lie properly beside him. John hums, eyes closed, turns on his side to curl into him and rest his head on his chest. Roger wonders if John can hear the thumping of his racing heart in the quiet of the room.

But John still hasn’t said anything. 

Roger begins to wonder if John had heard him at all, thinks that maybe he’d been too wrapped up in the pleasure to notice, and for a moment it calms something in him— until he considers the alternative. John could be ignoring what he’d said altogether, but there’s also a distinct possibility, Roger thinks, that John is lying there, planning out his next move— figuring out how to let Roger down easy or coming up with an excuse to leave or trying to find the right words to tell him that they’re over. For a moment, Roger sees flashes of a future where John doesn’t meet his eyes onstage, where he avoids him in dressing rooms and at afterparties, where he hardly talks to him unless he has to and Roger _knows_ he’s working himself up but he can’t stop. He desperately wishes he could get inside John’s head and see what he’s thinking.

He listens to the soft sound of John’s breathing, tracks the slow rise and fall of his chest and forces down the nausea. Minutes pass and John doesn’t make any sort of move to get up or to say anything and Roger almost starts to think that he’s in the clear, eventually bringing a hand around to run his fingers idly through John’s hair.

He’s finally beginning to relax, just slightly, when suddenly John shifts against him and Roger’s chest feels tight again.

“Rog, I…” John begins, still plastered to Roger’s side, head resting heavy on his chest. “When you said that you…” he trails off, takes a deep breath, steels himself. He lifts his head to look at Roger, eyes searching Roger’s own. “Did you mean it?”

Roger swallows heavily. “I —” he breaks off, biting his lip, willing his hands not to shake when he brushes John’s fringe back from his eyes. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely.

John’s eyes are wide. “You…”

Roger nods, pushes down the anxiety clawing its way into his chest. “I love you, Deaks.”

It’s real now. 

It’s spoken into the quiet stillness of the room, settling over them both like something heavy and warm and solid. Not impulsive, not said in the heat of the moment, but spoken evenly, purposely. And strangely, as soon as the words have left his mouth, Roger finds that he isn’t scared, not anymore.

The idea of falling in love is something that's always terrified him, for as long as he can remember. He was always so _afraid_ of being tied down— trapped, stuck with the same person forever— the very thought of it made him want to crawl out of his own skin. He isn’t sure when it changed, can’t pinpoint exactly where the shift occurred, but somewhere along the way the thing that terrified him became the thought of a life without John in it. It makes his chest ache and the blood rush in his ears when he thinks of a future without John to kiss and to hold, without John talking back and mouthing off, without John laughing at the stupidest jokes at the most inappropriate times; a future without John’s reassurance and constant, unwavering belief in him, without John’s calm, stable presence to talk him down, without John’s sweet gap-toothed smile— the one where his eyes crinkle and he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth that’s only ever for Roger.

And now that it’s finally hit him, Roger isn’t scared. Not anymore, not in the slightest. He loves John, and it’s the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

John looks back at him; so open, so vulnerable and so genuine. “You do?” he whispers.

Roger nods a little. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I do. I love you.”

John pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and then suddenly he’s smiling, all bright eyes and crows feet and dimples. His hand snakes up to hold Roger’s jaw and then he’s kissing him, firmly, smiling against his lips. Roger is surprised, for a moment, but then he’s smiling too, melting into it, cradling the base of John’s skull. When John pulls away he doesn’t go far, his nose brushing Roger’s as he grins against his lips. “I love you too,” he whispers.

Roger smiles so wide his cheeks hurt and he feels like he might float away, so he kisses him again. And then again. And then again and then again and then again, just because he can. There’s a tingling somewhere low in his hips that promises a second round later on, but for now he’s content right where he is, lost in John, in their soft, tender kisses and the sweet scent of John all around him.

“I love you,” John tells him again when he finally pulls away, letting Roger roll onto his side to face him, throwing an arm over Roger’s waist.

Roger curls his leg over John’s, brings a hand up to tuck John’s long hair back behind his ear and then rests it on his cheek. “I love you,” he grins.

It’s quiet then, as John smiles back at him, the only sounds filling the room that of their quiet breathing and the rustling of the curtains blowing in the breeze, the occasional car driving by stories below, tires crunching through the snow. Roger thumbs slowly over John’s cheekbone and John closes his eyes, turns his head slightly to press his lips to Roger’s palm and Roger’s heart is aching.

“I hate that we have to be a secret,” Roger whispers into the quiet. He’s not sure where it came from, but he supposes it doesn’t matter when John’s eyes slowly open and he gives him a sad sort of smile.

He lets out a long sigh through his nose and covers Roger’s hand on his cheek with his own, intertwining their fingers. “I do too.” He says finally. 

He plays with Roger’s fingers, brings their clasped hands down to brush his lips over Roger’s knuckles, his wrist. “I hate that we have to hide,” he whispers. “I hate that I can’t kiss you in front of the others, that I can’t hold your hand or look at you for too long or get too close. I hate that I always have to worry if I’m being too obvious, if somebody will notice and we’ll get caught and we’ll ruin everything that the band is finally becoming. I hate it.”

Roger swallows, brushing his knuckles slowly over John’s cheek.

“Everything is so… complicated right now,” John sighs. “Christ, I fucking hate it.” He takes in a deep breath. “But I love you. And you love me. And that’s enough, I think.” His eyes search Roger’s, open and wide and trusting, looking for confirmation. “For now, that’s enough.”

Roger’s heart skips painfully, and he brings their hands down to press a kiss to John’s knuckles. “You’re a sap,” he says softly. “But you’re right. And I love you.”

John pulls his lower lip between his teeth and smiles that crinkly-eyed smile, and it’s enough, Roger thinks. John here— loose-limbed and relaxed in his bed, warm against him, washed in pale moonlight, tangled in Roger’s sheets and smiling like the sun— he’s enough. 

He’ll always be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> oof
> 
> anyway come talk to me on my [tumblr](https://starrydrowse.tumblr.com) if ur also a slut for soft dealor or if u wanna send me anon hate or whatever thats cool too


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